A few hours later, Emily and I walk through Gate 1 of the Northlink Centre and emerge in the newly renovated private area.
“How the hell did you get these seats?” Emily asks as she scans the space.
I shrug. “I’m tight with one of the Boston pitchers.”
Emily spins around and glares at me. “Andwhyare you friends with the enemy?”
“Whoa, chill. James and I went to high school together.”
Emily softens, accepting my explanation, and we settle into our plush seats as soon as the teams emerge from their dugouts.
“Okay, so I know Boston is still the enemy,” she says, observing the teams, “but I have to admit that they have the hotter roster.”
I follow where she’s staring and land right on James and Ethan.
“Like, look at those two! Their bromance is so cute.”
“Emily, that’s my friend James, and hisboyfriendEthan.”
She doesn’t blink. “That’s even cuter.” Then she does a double take. “Wait, who’sthat?”
“Hey, come on. We came here to watch baseball, not the athletes…”
That’s when I notice the guy Emily is blatantly ogling. Whoever LeBlanc is, a tall guy with auburn hair andgreatthrowing arms, he makes me reconsider my stance.
“Maybe we can watch the athletes a little,” I say, and we do, at least until the teams take their positions to start.
“Ooh, your Ethan is batting first,” says Emily. Sure enough, he’s marching toward the box, his face neutral and his steps measured.
Our pitcher winds up and throws, and Ethan tenses up.
Ethan swings, connects, and takes off, making it to second.
“He’s good, and I’m sure he’s nice, but ooh, I hate him for that,” Emily says, and I nod.
“Yup. James is atraitor,twice over. He and Ethan should have demanded to play for Toronto.”
At least they playbaseballfor Boston, not hockey, so there’s some room for forgiveness.
Thankfully for Toronto, Boston only scores one run, and James takes his position on the mound for the bottom of the inning.
I clear my throat. “Okay, James. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
He’s got enough skill to carry the whole damn team, apparently, because every single pitch he throws in this inning results in either a foul or a strike, and the score remains at one to nothing.
“Why are you friends with people who make us lose?” Emily jokes, knocking my shoulder.
“We aren’t losing yet,” I shoot back. “Have some faith in our boys.”
Our faith means nothing because Toronto loses. Only by one, though. Toronto knocked Boston out of the playoffs last season, so maybe this is some kind of revenge.
“Alright Emily,” I say, picking up my empty cups and tossing them into the recycling bin. “Let’s go meet the victors.”
She laughs, and I text James to see where I can find him.
Congrats on the win!
James Hernandez
